The Grandsire
by Violin Ghost
Summary: An old man tells a little known story to his grandchildren, one that was passed on to him by his own grandsire. Oneshot.


_Set a few hundred years after the coronation of King Elessar._

**_The Grandsire_**

"Tell us another story, Grandsire!"

"Yes, please do!"

An old, old man, with innumerable wrinkles and sparkling eyes that were as yet undiminished by age, smiled tenderly at the three children clustered around him, eyes wide with wonder at the tales he was telling.

"The story of Boromir's death has quite worn me out," he said. "And what stories still exist that I have not yet told you hungry little children about?"

"Tell us more of battles and sword fights!" yelled Duilin, brandishing a wooden sword. He was quite like the Boromir of old, in miniature.

"No, tell us about the Nazgûl," interjected Duinhir, Duilin's twin, who loved to feel the pleasant tingle crawl up his spine as Grandsire told them of Gondor's terrifying enemies.

"Boring!" and Duilin stuck his tongue out at Duinhir.

"Tell us a love story!" pleaded Tinnu, who looked upon Arwen Undomiel as her role model.

"Double boring!" echoed Duinhir, rolling his eyes. Girls were such a mystery to him. Why would she want to hear a love story? They were all so mushy and gross and uninteresting. "Besides," he added hopefully, glancing at his brother, "I think we've already heard all the love stories Grandsire has to tell."

"Is that so?" questioned Grandsire, misty grey eyes twinkling.

"Sure it is," was Duilin's prompt reply, after nodding almost imperceptibly at Duinhir. "We've heard about King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, and Luthien Tinuviel and Beren, and Tuor and Idril Celebrindal, and Elrond and Celebrian, and Elwing and Earendil, and Celeborn and Galadriel, and even Samwise son of Hamfast and Rosie and their daughter Elanor the Fair." The twins most definitely did not want to end storytelling night with a romance.

"Bless the Valar, is that everything?" and the children could have sworn Grandsire was grinning.

"Yes, Grandsire," replied Duinhir, heart sinking. Had they forgotten someone?

"Then I have exhausted my supply of love stories—" the twins exchanged triumphant smirks "—save one." The smirks were instantly wiped off their faces and Tinnu brightened up.

"Who is the story about, Grandsire?" she asked, bouncing up and down in excitement.

"Do you remember Faramir, the good Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, who rejected the Ring and was nearly burned alive by his father?"

Three little heads nodded.

"And do you remember Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan and Ithilien, who disguised herself as a man and killed the Witch King of Angmar?"

More nods.

"You are well aware of the fact that they married?"

"Yes," interrupted Duinhir, who was starting to get interested, despite himself, "but our tutor told us that they only married because their Kings wanted them to and so that there would be a new alliance formed between Gondor and Rohan and—" but Tinnu shushed him, eager for the story.

"That is the story that has survived, Duinhir," agreed Grandsire, "but that does not necessarily mean that it is true. Only the heirs of Faramir know the true story.

"Listen well, for none beyond our family know the story that I am about to repeat. It is a page from history that was not written, and generations will pass before it is, I am sure." Grandsire's voice became graver, deeper, more mysterious. The children called it his story-telling voice. They crowded closer, drinking everything in, eager for more, and anticipating the best kind of story they had come to expect from Grandsire.

But to their surprise, he didn't start off with the timeless _Once upon a time_, but started chanting in a sad, wistful tone.

"_O maiden fair, forgive him  
__For he cannot return your love  
__He is sworn to one whom he loves above all  
__And their love stretches past death, past the Sea,  
P__ast Time itself  
__But you love him not  
__You love that which beckons by loving him  
__Freedom from duty, from honor,  
__From binding chains powerful  
__And silent oaths kept_

"_But she listened not to her heart  
__And rode to war  
__To a different kind of freedom,  
__To Death  
__The wind brushed her and called her name  
__But she heeded it not  
__And to the Pelennor she rode on the wings of despair  
__The Black Breath took her, but she silenced its touch  
__Forever.  
__She fell in the defence of her King  
__And her name faded to nothing but the anguished cry of a brother._

"_O noble young man with eyes of the Sea  
__Judge yourself not so harshly  
__Your father is grieved; can you not see the sorrowful light in his eyes  
__That leads you into his soul?  
__His pent-up anger is released on you  
__Not caused by you  
__Ride not to battle caused by madness and supported by grief  
__He loves you  
__Do not go  
__Do not go_

"_But his heart he heeded not  
__And he set forth for a battle from which he knew  
__He would not return whole  
__The Black Breath stole over him all the while  
__And yet, so close to home, near enough to hear  
__The trampling of Dol Amroth's fleet horses  
__The blow came and the Black Breath seeped through his mind and soul  
__He succumbed and fell to the Darkness  
__And the people of Gondor wept  
__Over his still, fair face._

"_But near death still he was cheated of his peace  
__And outside his silver city  
__Orcs were busy at work  
__And the manly tears of soldiers fell  
__Like rain upon severed heads  
__His father gave way to madness and Fire  
__Greedy licking flames of unbearable heat would have been his Fate  
__Were it not for timely rescue and swift white horse  
__He was finally given his rest—  
__But at the expense of a father."_

"Did they both die?" asked Tinnu, horrified.

"'Course they didn't, they got married in the end, remember?" retorted the ever logical Duinhir. Duilin shot them both a dirty look that silenced them immediately. But Grandsire had not lost the thread of the story. He was captivated, trapped within the beauty and peril of the sad tale…

"_So maiden fair and noble man with brave Halfling  
__Lay in the peaceful houses of healing  
__Ashen-faced, on the threshold of death  
__And those by their bedsides kept vigil fearfully  
__But as Darkness threatened  
__A sole, faint beam of light  
__Glimmered  
__and grew  
__Engulfed the victims, cleansed them  
__And athelas fulfilled the age-old prophecy  
__As sweet-smelling memories—  
__of rolling hills, of summer days, of moonlit nights—  
__Breezed through the window_

"_He awoke and first hailed his savior  
__Rightful king  
__She awoke and found her brother  
__Weeping shamelessly over her  
__Halfling awoke  
__To find friends big and small laughing with joy and relief  
__And the three lived."_

"Told you so," said Duinhir, smiling smugly at his sister.

"Whatever, you would have asked the same thing if you hadn't known the end of the story."

"But you _do_ know the end of the story!"

"Will you two just shut up for a minute?"

"_There were tears and smiles, embraces and laughter  
__The day was perfect  
__But it could not last and all but the three  
__Rode to the Black Gates and did not expect to return  
__For the hour was drawing near  
__When all would be decided.  
__So, restless and weary, broken and captive,  
__The invalids felt the chains of illness  
__And nearly despaired.  
__But, as Fate would have it, maiden of the plains wished to fly  
__And demanded, commanded audience with the lord of Gondor  
__And she first beheld the Sea-grey eyes  
__Speech all but failed her  
__As she gazed into dark depths and tender wisdom  
__But still knew not._

"_The young lord of Gondor regarded the pale face  
__And the haunted eyes  
__He too looked deep and found there no tenderness but dejection  
__His heart was moved by pity  
__And something deeper  
__But he befriended her  
__And conquered the shield maiden in a battle none yet had won._

"_He bequeathed the mantle of stars to her  
__And stood on the walls  
__A silhouette framed by the setting sun  
__As he took her hand  
__Time was all but stilled  
__And the beating of their hearts merged  
__A kiss on her pale brow, the sighing of the wind,  
__And it was over.  
__Victory._

"_But winning is not sweet for the sad-eyed maiden  
__As she loses  
__Him whom she loves  
__But who does she love?  
__She pales, she sighs, she ponders, she weeps  
__Until her eyes are hollow and haunted once more  
__And she cares not for celebration  
__She is only subject to sorrow  
__And the healers sigh for her_

"_The Steward of Gondor toils and contemplates  
__And hears of fair lady's distress  
__He mounts the wall and takes her hand  
__And speaks the Truth.  
__The White Lady experiences a revelation  
__That love is good and kind and true  
__That love conquers all  
__That love is not worldly  
__That love is more beautiful than the Golden Hall of Meduseld  
__That love is joy more than swords and free plains  
__That true love had alighted silently, bringing this young man of Gondor._

"_Beneath the sunlit sky  
__They shared a kiss exquisite,  
__Caring not that all but the furthest away glimpsed them  
__A symbol of love and affection  
__And triumph over Darkness."_

"She realized she loved him! _Yes_!" cried Duilin, punching the air.

Tinnu and Duinhir stared at him.

"Forget I said anything," Duilin grumbled.

"_They were joined together, 'til Death part them,  
__And at night, the Prince gazed at his Princess  
__Lying in bed, a white arm stretched across the white coverlet  
__He bent down and kissed her softly  
__So as not to wake her.  
__And Faramir whispered,  
_"_Never was mortal happier than I with my fair Eowyn.""_

All three children wiped tears from their eyes, and Grandsire seemed to come out of his trance. He smiled at the twins and said, teasingly,

"I thought strong boys like you two don't cry! And weren't you both against a love story?"

They glared defiantly at him. "It's your fault," pronounced Duinhir, rather annoyed that Grandsire had managed to shake tears out of him. "If you hadn't told it so well we wouldn't be crying."

Grandsire sighed, as if remembering something, and he gazed into the distance as he so often did nowadays.

"What are you thinking of, Grandsire?" inquired Tinnu quietly.

_A little boy, perched on his grandsire's knee, sat, captivated by an old man's story. "Why did you make me cry, Grandsire?" he asked reproachfully. His grandsire simply laughed._

"Grandsire, I've been thinking," said Duinhir meditatively, chewing on his lip. "Why do _you _know the story, if only the descendants of Prince Faramir know it?"

"Well…" said Grandsire, wavering. The grey, innocent eyes pleaded at him, and he was won. "I suppose you deserve to know the truth. We _are _the descendants of Faramir. But it is not a well-known fact."

Tinnu's eyes were as round as saucers. "_Really_?" she asked, astounded. "Then why didn't we know about it? And why aren't you the Steward?"

"I am not the firstborn, and I and my brother… went our separate ways. We haven't spoken to each other in fifteen years." Grandsire hung his head sadly. "Also, being the near kin of the Steward of Gondor is very dangerous. You could be killed or kidnapped, so be careful and do not spread this knowledge around." He was starting to regret that he had said anything.

"We won't Grandsire, we won't," said the three children earnestly.

"Off to bed with you three rascals, then," he said, kissing them goodnight affectionately. How he loved them so! "Your mother will be after my head if she finds out you've stayed awake this long!" The children scampered off and Grandsire sighed again.

"_Take care of this story, will you not, Barahir? For it is very precious to me."_

"_I will, Grandsire, I will."_

_Faramir smiled gently in response. _

"I did, Grandsire, I did," murmured Barahir, before picking his staff up and limping to his room. "I have put it in the hands of three sweet children. They will treasure it too.

"I took good care of it."

* * *

**A/N: Barahir isn't exactly my creation, he's mentioned in the book, in the notes about the Shire. He's reportedly the one who wrote the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, which is why I thought it would be he who was most likely to remember the story, being scholarly. Oh, and forgive me, I only realized now that _Pheriannath _means Halfings, not Halfling. I've edited that-- it should be _perian,_ but I decided to just use Halfling, for consistency. Anyway, see you around, and thank you for reading this fic!**

**EDIT: I've changed** **Tintallë's name to Tinnu, which means Dawn. Using Tintallë as a name would have been considered irreverent, I believe, to Varda. **


End file.
